Fated
by Parchment and Poetry
Summary: The Moirae, or the Fates, are three of the most misunderstood characters in all mythology. If you've ever considered the Fates cruel or heartless, this is for you.
1. The Spinner

_**Fated: Chapter 1.**_

A/N: I don't own Greek Mythology, or the Fates. I just play here.

The Spinner:

Perhaps my job is the easiest, most speculate. After all, how hard can it be to begin the threads of one life? To spin together the fibers that will be the person to whom this thread pertains? What so few see, however, is the pain that it is to begin a life, knowing it will be short, as all mortal lives are.

I, Clotho, have the least control. My sisters decide the length of the life, while I merely begin it. It will always be hard to give control of a unique mortal to another, even to those that I trust as much as my sisters. Do not think that I have no remorse, as my sisters must. For as surely as I start a thread, I propel it toward its imminent doom. Imminent death.

I am the youngest of the Moirae, and as my sisters tell me, the most naïve. But I cannot help that I am not so jaded as they are. I am tender and nurturing, as is my nature. And though I have begun millions of lives, and have sway over even the lives of the gods, each mortal is precious. Precious like the thread their lives are written on. Precious like the gods themselves, for what are the gods without the mortals to worship them?

The spinner gives life, surely. But to give a gift only to know it shall be stolen from those it is given to is cruelty indeed.


	2. The Measurer

**_Fated: Chapter 2_**.

A/N: Amazingly, I still don't own Greek Mythology (That's a shocker, isn't it?)

The Measurer

Surely I can have no sorrow, it is said. Having measured the length of so many lives before, can another truly be so difficult? Am I not hardened already to the idea of ending the life of yet another mortal? Am I not cruel by nature, reveling in the power I have to choose how long every mortal may live?

I, Lachesis, have much power. Whether a child lives beyond infancy, I control. Whether an old man lives to see his first great-grandchild, I control. Each mother that dies in childbirth, I have measured her life. Each young man in love that dies before he weds, I have counted his days. I cannot give everyone long life, as I would wish, for the world would weep in anguish for the old who can no longer give life to children, and for the children who will never be. Remorse there will surely be, for I cause death as surely as my sisters, though the final cut is not mine to make.

I am the middle sister, not so tender as one, and not so bitter as the other. I wish that I had an easier task, but I am fated as certainly as I am a fate myself. The Moirae have more control than they wish, and less control than they are believed to have. And I am considered heartless, but mostly I am sad. Sad for the lives I must cut short, and sad for the lives I must leave long.

The measurer will ever have the bitter control of the life itself. I cannot begin, I cannot end, but I must always allot the middle, and it is my hand that brings harshness.


	3. The Severer

Fated: Chapter 3 

A/N: This is like deja-vu all over again, but I don't own Greek Mythology. And I never, ever shall.

The Severer

I must be cruel. I must be heartless. I strike the final blow to end a life. I cut short the last breath of the mortal whose turn it is to die. Certainly, it is whispered, certainly I can not have tenderness. Surely I can never feel kindness and warmth. For my job is cold. My task is bring the lives of the mortals to a close, and someday the lives of the gods themselves. I send mortals on the road to Hades, and I will one day send Hades on the road to oblivion himself.

I, Atropos, have lived the longest of my sisters. I have the cruelest power of cutting short a life, having never the chance to create, to nurture, but only to destroy. Perhaps I am jaded, having lived so long, and having cut lives so short. From the babe whose string one cannot see, she has lived so short, to the old man whose cord is long and tattered from good use, I bring the closing verse. The ending chapter to the story of a life.

I am the eldest, the one who severs. I bring days and months and years to an end. I am the least nurturing of my sisters, and the most jaded to my task. I am required to bring the life my youngest sister starts, and my middle sister measures, to an end. My control extends only as long as the shears I hold. I have brought pain to many, and relief to some. I am deep and bitter.

The severer can only end, never begin, unless one is to consider death itself a beginning. It is the end of breath, and the end of my control. And one day my own death shall be the end to my bitterness, and I shall have a beginning of my own.


End file.
